Lily White
by joiede
Summary: Sana and Hayama. His disinterest masks a soft spot revealed only when they are alone...in this case, on the top of a school roof.


Short drabble between Sana and Hayama.

Lily White

It wasn't as if their relationship was a big secret.

Nevertheless…

"I don't like the attention," Hayama had told her, facial muscles contorted into a rather ticked off expression. 'Okay then' she had responded dutifully— like a good girlfriend might do.

But you know…

The attention wasn't something that bothered her. Rather stealthily, she looped her fingers around his impassive ones as he cast her a disinterested glance. Without even a slight change in expression, he continued to pull her along the hallway, tugging at her hand only when her steps fell too sluggish for his deliberate pace.

"He's really lucky, you know," Naozumi said to her yesterday— at a commercial shoot for banana shampoo, "I don't think I could find a girlfriend like you."

Nao was a funny guy—a bit weird, maybe. But he was nice-- like Hayama, except he was a different kind of nice. Hayama was a secret kind of nice—and she couldn't tell him he was nice, or he would try to flip her skirt up.

"You're nice," she told him once, while they were standing on the school roof. It was one of those inadequately impulsive moments where everything just kind of slipped out—like buttered soap.

He gave her a weird look. "Are you sick?"

'Not sick,' she thought decidedly, tilting her face to offer him a quizzical smile. Not sick-- maybe delusional. But there was a difference between the two. There really was. She was sick once—and it was certainly not the same as being delusional.

It wasn't very fun, being sick. She'd been sick once before, and Hayama had to yank her out of class to get her to go to the hospital. That wasn't much fun either, the hospital smelled like old lemons and airplane food left out in the sun for too long.

She faintly recalled sticking her face into Hayama's sweater in an attempt to shield her nose from the squeamish incense. "I think," she remembered telling Hayama, her message indubitably muffled through the fabric, "Airplane food turns our stomachs into waffles."

"If your stomach was a waffle, nothing would be digested and you'd blow up like a balloon."

Such a logical explanation, she had thought. "Okay, not a waffle. Maybe a smushed mochi ball."

Beneath her forehead, his arm shifted to pull her face into the jut of his shoulder, "You're hungry, right? I'll buy you some daifuku if you don't throw up on me."

"What am I, a cow? My breakfast is perfectly happy where it is, mister."

It was rare to see anything outside of the traditional legion of facial expressions written across Hayama's face. Back in the day, she dubbed it the 'SPADD' variety—Sulky, Peeved, Annoyed, and the ever so eloquent "Drop Dead" eyeful.

"At least he only _looks_ like a hoodlum," Tsuyoshi had pointed out, "It's better than how I expected him to be by now. Thank you, Sana-chan."

"What for?" she asked rather bashfully, quite pink from the pretty speech and flattery

"You changed him, you know."

Part of her liked this idea. The other half of her was rather put off by it. Hayama? Change? The thought made her head churn in a mystified tangle. How… gauche. How does Hayama change into anything other than Hayama?

Although… it would be nice if he changed a little bit-- just the part of him that tries to feel her up on impulse. Yes, maybe changing him was a good thing after all. Who knew how many poor innocent girls she could've saved from his evil man-hands?

The imagery made her giggle, prompting Hayama to give her another funny look. "What?"

She shut up. This was obviously not a mental picture she could explain to him—especially considering the nature of it's content.

"Nothing."

Sometimes she couldn't be sure if he was in love with her or not. Like right now—with his hand unresponsively mechanic in her fingers, and his gaze cast coolly above her head at some invisible focal point. The thought made her a bit sad.

But you know…

Abruptly, he loosens his grip on her hand as they reach their destination—a somberly pathetic-looking stoop perched atop the school roof.

You know…

Their eyes met in reconciliation. Hers, wide with childish guilelessness. His, masked in inscrutability. Gingerly, her fingers prodded their way back into his palm. Tearing away from the eye contact, he gripped her hand in his, the abruptness of the movement startling Sana to almost drop her books in stupefaction.

He tugs her closer, with his fingers like ice on the back of her neck-- the little hairs on her arm sticking up like porcupine quills. His voice is muffled in her hair, "Is this okay?"

"Yes." She says, soaking up the subtle affection like a holey cratered sponge, "It's very okay."

Sometime she wasn't sure if he was in love with her. But you know… maybe this was something she didn't have to be sure of.


End file.
